efforts to think of other things, but in vain.

Every moment he expected the chill, the sense of loneliness
that yet was ominous of a strange visitation, the peculiarly
imagined lights and shades of the night--these things that
presaged the coming of Cal Bain. Doggedly Duane fought against
the insidious phantom. He kept telling himself that it was just
imagination, that it would wear off in time. Still in his heart
he did not believe what he hoped. But he would not give up; he
would not accept the ghost of his victim as a reality.

Gray dawn found him in the saddle again headed for the river.
Half an hour of riding brought him to the dense chaparral and
willow thickets. These he threaded to come at length to the
ford. It was a gravel bottom, and therefore an easy crossing.
Once upon the opposite shore he reined in his horse and looked
darkly back. This action marked his acknowledgment of his
situation: he had voluntarily sought the refuge of the outlaws;
he was beyond the pale. A bitter and passionate curse passed
his lips as he spurred his horse into the brakes on that alien
shore.

He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring
whether or not he left a plain trail.

"Let them hunt me!" he muttered.

When the heat of the day began to be oppressive, and hunger and
thirst made themselves manifest, Duane began to look about him
for a place to halt for the noon-hours. The trail led into a